


I Capture the Sink

by kathkin



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24168793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: “This chair’s broken,” Arthur slurred. / “That’s not a chair,” Merlin said. “That’s the sink.” “Oh,” said Arthur, then, as Merlin pulled him out. “There’s a. Thing. Ref’rence here. You know, that book with the thing?”In which Arthur is very drunk on a Tuesday night and Merlin gets new socks.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 210





	I Capture the Sink

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this prompt](https://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/33344.html?thread=35562816#t35562816) on Kink Me Merlin back in 2012:
> 
> _arthur/merlin, modern au, merlin's friends with morgana and gwen and is at their flat one day hen arthur turns up staggeringly drunk. like, can't form sentences properly drunk. he thinks merlin is a burglar, tries to tackle him and ends up sitting in the sink (somehow). then he puke on merlin's shoes. i think that's an auspicious start._

_im hungry. hurry up with the piz_

Merlin’s thumb paused on the touchpad of his phone, text left hanging on a Greek letter, because of the sudden banging on the door.

He squinted out into the dark hallway, considering letting whoever it was knock until they got bored, because it wasn’t his flat, but the banging was rapidly frantic. He groaned, tossed his phone down amid the clutter on the coffee table, and dragged himself upright.

“Morgana’s not here,” he said as he tugged open the front door. “And this better be important, I was –”

All the breath was knocked out of him by a flailing, beer-smelling bundle of limbs that pushed him to the ground in what was not so much a tackle as a dragging sort of tumble with enough force that his head _thunked_ against the carpet, and that plus the overall confusion left him dizzy for half a minute or so.

“The hell are you?” said whoever it was, voice slurred. By the sound – and the smell – of it they were quite spectacularly drunk.

“The hell am I,” said Merlin. “The hell are _you_?” The drunk’s grip was slackening, momentary burst of adrenaline clearly having run its course, and he extracting himself from their hold as they slurred on, barely comprehensible. Merlin picked out _police_ and _burgler_ and _stealing shit_.

“I’m not a burgler,” he said as he got to his feet, rubbing at the sore spot on his head. He flicked on the light and blinking down at the blond man on the carpet. “Arthur?”

“Callin’ the police,” Arthur slurred, stumbled upright, phone already unsteady in his fingers.

“I’m not a burgler,” said Merlin carefully. “I’m Merlin. I’m Morgana’s friend.” Arthur looked blank. “You’ve met me before.” Still blank. “We’re Facebook friends?”

Somehow, _that_ managed to trigger recognition. “Ohhh!” Arthur pointed at Merlin, an excited smile spreading across his face. “You’re that guy! With the thing!” He stumbled forward.

“What thing? I have a thing?” said Merlin.

“You,” said Arthur, taking Merlin by the shoulders. “You’re my favourite, mate.” He giggled. One hand cuffed at Merlin’s face gently.

“Okay. Please let go, though,” said Merlin. He tried to pull away but Arthur’s hand tightened on his shirt.

“Aw, I love you, M’rlin,” he choked out. Then he threw up all down Merlin’s front.

It was not, Merlin reasoned through the haze of horror, as bad as it could have been – it was mostly over his feet and those socks were full of holes anyway, his shirt had come out okay, but that did little to abate his own rising nausea at the feel of Arthur’s sick gently soaking in between his toes, or the fact that Arthur was still spitting out the last of it, shoulders sagging. He let out a snivelling sound.

“Oh, fuck,” said Merlin.

“S’rry,” Arthur muttered. He had not let go of Merlin’s shirt.

“I am going to _kill_ Morgana when she gets back,” said Merlin. He herded Arthur into the kitchen, lifting his feet carefully so he wouldn’t mess up the carpet, and deposited him in front of the sink where he could retch all he wanted.

Getting his socks off his feet and into a stray plastic bag without making a mess of the floor or his hands took some logistic, and he’d barely finished before he heard a clatter behind him.

Arthur was rooting through the piled-up dishes on the work-top. He’d managed to dig a glass out and now it was slipping precariously in his hands. Merlin darted over and snatched it away before it fell.

“Hey!” said Arthur. “M’ getting some water. M’mouth tastes of sick.”

“That’s cause you were sick,” said Merlin. “On me. And I think I should be handling the glassware just now and also this glass is dirty.” Gwen had been drinking chocolate milk out of it earlier. “You just sit tight, I’ll get you a clean one.”

He’d just managed to find a clean glass that wasn’t for shots or wine when something creaked ominously. He turned and found Arthur sitting in the sink, one left half-snagged on the draining board, looking about as confused as Merlin felt.

“What are you doing?”

“This chair’s broken,” Arthur slurred.

“That’s not a chair,” Merlin said slowly. “That’s the sink.”

“Oh,” said Arthur, then, as Merlin pulled him out. “There’s a. Thing. Ref’rence here. You know, that book with the thing?”

“ _I Capture the Castle_?” said Merlin absently, filling up the water glass.

“Yeah, see,” said Arthur, hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “That’s why you’re the best. You know thins’.”

“Sure, okay,” said Merlin. “I’m the best and you’re the drunkest, how’s that sound?” He handed Arthur his water. Arthur gulped it down eagerly, splashing water down his chin.

“I hate you,” said Merlin mildly, wiping at Arthur’s face with a tea towel – Arthur kept making things more difficult for him by trying to drink more of his water. “And I hate Morgana. I hate you both.”

“Don’ hate me.” Arthur swayed on the spot. “Where’s Morgaa, an’way?”

“She’s getting pizza,” said Merlin, rescuing the glass before it got dropped. “See, she’s got this favourite pizza place but it’s like a mile away and they don’t deliver and we ordered enough stuff that it was a two-person pick up job and we tossed a coin – never mind.” Arthur’s attention had wandered to the button’s on Merlin’s shirt collar. “Look, how about this. You come through to the living room and have a nice lie down on the sofa till Morgana gets back, okay? That sound good?”

“Can do,” said Arthur. He hiccupped.

“And seriously,” said Merlin, taking Arthur by the wrist and leading him back through the flat. “Who gets this drunk on a _Tuesday_. It’s _Tuesday_ and it’s barely ten. What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Tequila,” said Arthur. “’S’on offer at the Crown. Shots for two quid.” He stood in the living room, blearily confused. Merlin gave him a shove in the right direction. He caught sight of the sofa and slumped onto it, face-down amid the cushions and Morgana’s nice flowery blanket.

“No, not like that,” said Merlin. “You shouldn’t pass down face down, it’s really bad for you.” He rolled Arthur onto his back. 

“You’re the best,” said Arthur through a yawn. “M’favourite.”

“That’s nice,” said Merlin, tugging Arthur’s t-shirt down to cover his exposed stomache.

“You’ve got beautiful eyes,” Arthur trilled thickly.

“Isn’t that something,” said Merlin.

Arthur pushed himself up on one elbow, scrabbling for purchase against the suadey fabric of the sofa, and said, “Gon’ be sick again.”

“What.”

Arthur leaned over and retched in the direction of the carpet.

“Oh, no,” said Merlin, trying desperately to pull the dead weight that was Arthur back upright. “No, you will not throw up on Morgana’s carpet, you hear me? Throwing up is for the bathroom.”

“Don’ wan’ move,” Arthur groaned.

“Then you’ll have to hold it in.” Arthur moaned. Merlin took that as an ascent and dragged Arthur right off the sofa. 

For the first few steps Arthur stubbornly let himself be dragged across the carpet like a sack full of drunk meat, but then either he realised where they were going or he started getting carpet burn and he began to co-operate as best he could.

Merlin deposited him in a heap in front of the toilet, then arranged him, shoved his face above the toilet bowl, but rather than throw up like he’d threatened too Arthur blinked and slumped down, resting his face on the toilet seat like it was a pillow.

“Stop hugging the toilet,” said Merlin, kicking him.

“Nuh,” said Arthur. “Sleepin’. You’re a dick.”

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” Merlin growled. “I put you on the sofa and you want to throw up. I put you on the toilet and you want to sleep. Okay, fine, sleep on the toilet all you want. Just don’t come crying to me if you drown.”

He left Arthur to his own devices and took the opportunity to stick his feet under the shower for a minute or so to wash off what was left of Arthur’s vomit. He’d just shut off the water when Arthur began to throw up quite spectacularly. Apparently wrecking Merlin’s socks before had just been a prelude to the main event.

“Mother of god, what have you eaten,” he muttered, rolling his jeans back down.

“M’ dying,” Arthur choked out. “Help.”

“You’re not dying,” said Merlin. “Just drunk.” Arthur sobbed and resumed his throwing up. Merlin hovered beside him – not because he particularly wanted to be comforting, more because Arthur was probably choke-on-your-own-vomit drown-in-toilet-bowl drunk and Merlin would hate to have that on his conscience.

Thankfully Arthur quieted down when he was finished – apparently he was actually ready to pass out. He was quiet all through Merlin methodically wiping him off with half a roll of toilet paper, and quiet through Merlin taking him back to the living room and dumping him on the sofa. He didn’t say anything ill Merlin fetched a bucket from the utility cupboard and stuck it as near Arthur’s face as it would go.

“There,” he said. “Aim for that if you throw up again, okay?”

“Will do,” said Arthur, one hand trailing down to the floor. He swallowed noisily. “Sorry.” His eyes fluttered closed.

Merlin stood beside Arthur till he was pretty sure Arthur had passed out – and then a bit longer, partly because it seemed too good to be true, and partly because Arthur kept making snuffly noises like a racoon and fooling Merlin into thinking he was waking up.

He had just abanoned his awkward vigil to get his phone and finish that text to Morgana when there came voices out in the stairwell and the front door cracked open.

“– told you not to order three garlic breads,” Morgana was saying. “My arms hurt, you’ll have to give me a shoulder massage later.” Her gaze fell on Merlin, who had rushed into the hall to greet her, sockless and frantic with his shirt still spattered with ick.

“What happened to you?” she said. 

“Your brother showed up,” said Merlin, trying to keep the rising panic out of his voice, “and he’s drunk on a Tuesday because god knows why and he threw up all over me and now he’s passed out on the sofa.”

“Oh, god,” said Morgana. She proffered her arm full of pizza boxes. “Look – here. I’ll deal with him. I’m so sorry.” She shoved their take-out into Merlin’s arms and darted into the living room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“So, nice walk?” said Merlin.

“Bracing,” said Gwen. “I –”

Arthur’s voice rose suddenly in the living room, sounding frantic, though Merlin couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“Turns out they were all out of anchovies,” said Gwen. “So no anchovies. The guy said we could have peppers instead but I wasn’t sure if you like peppers and Morgana said she thought you didn’t, but –”

“That’s fine. Not really in the mood for anchovies any more. Arthur –”

A noise began to emanate from behind the living room door that sounded uncomfortably like drunken crying.

Gwen cleared her throat. “Let’s go put this stuff in the kitchen, shall we?” Merlin let out a shaky sigh of relief and tagged along.

In the kitchen, Gwen was clearing a space amongst the clutter on the table. “Pasta’s gone a bit cold, we might need to heat it up,” she said, then, “Oh. Ew.” She had found Merlin’s socks, all snuggly wrapped in a Tesco bag and Arthur’s vomit.

“Oh, jesus, sorry,” said Merlin, snatching them away. “Arthur threw up on my feet.”

“I’ll put those in the wash for you –”

“No, I’ll deal with it, it wasn’t your fault –”

“We can do your shirt too,” said Gwen. “It’s no bother, we’ve got a dryer.”

Somehow she convinced Merlin to strip off his shirt and the t-shirt underneath and sit shivering and shirtless in the kitchen, and by the time his clothes were spinning merrily in the washing machine (which was, in fairness, better than his, and they used nicer detergent too with fabric softener in it, so his shirt might actually be improved by the whole experience) Morgana had hurried through into the kitchen, brow wrinkled neatly.

“I’m going to walk Arthur home,” she said, biting her lip.

“Okay.” Merlin was picking at his pizza. Dealing with throwing-up-drunk Arthur had put him right off pizza.

“I’m so sorry you had to deal with this,” said Morgana. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.” She kissed Gwen good bye, apologised to Merlin again, then rushed away to help Arthur out the door and down the stairs. Merlin could hear him grumbling all the way.

“So,” he said as the front door slammed shut. “Does he do this often?”

“Who, Arthur?” said Gwen, tipping her pasta from its foil dish into a saucepan to reheat. “No, not really. Not at all, actually. He’s not done this before, or not while I’ve been living here. He’s normally very sober. Emotionally, I mean. I’ve seen him drunk before but not like that.”

Merlin spotted a clean (or he thought it was clean) towel amidst the mess on one of the other chairs and wrapped it around himself.

“I hope this hasn’t ruined your evening,” said Gwen.

“Nah,” said Merlin, making a proper start on his pizza. “It’s fine. Could have been a lot worse.” Well, it could have been worse, but he wasn’t sure it was fine. Arthur that drunk should have been funny, because he _was_ usually so sober and straight-laced, but not when he was teetering on the edge of dangerously drunk, and not when Merlin was stone sober.

“I think I need a drink now,” he sighed.

“I’ll pour you some wine,” said Gwen, not even skipping a beat.

*

After that, he didn’t expect to see Arthur again for a while. When Morgana got back all she had to say on the matter was that Arthur was safely home and tucked up in bed, and that now they were to try and have a nice evening despite the mess and the stress and the fuss.

Merlin figured Arthur would be too embarrassed and hungover to be out much, and it wasn’t as if they saw all that much of each other under normal circumstances – only when Morgana organised a dinner party or a pub outing, really – so Merlin was honestly surprised when Arthur showed up at his front door four days later.

He was clutching what looked like a box of chocolates to his chest, but it was giftwrapped so Merlin wasn’t sure, and he was stern and sober as ever.

“Morning,” he said.

“Hi?” said Merlin, suddenly quite painfully aware that he hadn’t bothered to change out of his pyjamas yet.

Arthur took a deep breath and loosened up a little. “I just wanted to apologise,” he said, “for throwing up on you, and for making a nuisance of myself, and for anything else I might have done –”

“You thought I was a burglar and tackled me,” said Merlin, deadpan. 

Arthur winced. “I’m sorry for tackling you, and for anything else I did. And thank you for looking after me and not leaving me to choke on my own vomit on Morgana’s floor, which as she has very eloquently pointed out to me you’d have been perfectly entitled to do, under the circumstances –” Merlin couldn’t quite hold back a laugh at that. “But yes. You were – well, thanks.” He paused, then held out the gift-wrapped package. “I got you these. I, er – Morgana, said you’d like them.”

Merlin took the package – and yes, definitely chocolates. He never turned down free chocolate. “Okay,” he said. Arthur looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for a _thank you_ or a _you are forgiven_ , and when he got neither he went on.

“I’m very sorry, and if there’s anything else I can do – just let me know.”

“You owe me a new pair of socks,” said Merlin absently, inspecting the label on his chocolates. It had a generic apology message printed on it.

“I’ll get right on that,” said Arthur. “See you later, I guess?”

“Sure,” said Merlin. He shut the door firmly.

The chocolates, he discovered once he’d ripped the paper off, were salted caramels. Merlin had once (while a little tipsy, he had to confess) said that salted caramels were like tiny mouth-orgasms wrapped in chocolate, and then lamented at length that they were so hard to find. He’d discovered them during a year abroad in the States. He couldn’t quite hold back a cooing noise at the sight of them, and he cradled the box in his arms all the way back to his desk. He loved Morgana, he really did.

About half an hour later, he was a good way into the box and neglecting his work when the door bell rang again. Arthur was on his doorstep again, rummaging in a shiny plastic bag.

“I got you a blue pair,” he was saying, while Merlin belatedly checked that he didn’t have chocolate around his mouth, “and a funny pair. Not sure what kind of socks you like.” He held out a pair in each hand.

The funny socks had yellow castles and red knights printed on them, and Merlin liked blue. He liked blue a lot He took them, a mite confused.

“I… didn’t expect you to _actually_ buy me new socks,” he said. “I mean, I was mostly joking.”

“I threw up on your old ones, though,” said Arthur.

“I have other socks, and those ones were full of holes,” said Merlin. “You didn’t have to do this. Really.”

Arthur beamed, suddenly all bashful, as if he thought he was forgiven – and damn it, he _was_ forgiven, as much as Merlin tried to suppress his sudden fondness for Arthur.

“So how did you even get to be that drunk on a Tuesday?” he said, adjusting his grip on the socks. “I’ve been wondering.”

“Ah,” said Arthur. “It’s, er, a little personal, actually.” Merlin looked at him expectantly. He was owed an explanation as well as socks. “I ran into my ex. In Starbucks. And she had her new boyfriend with her – and, I don’t know, we’ve been broken up a while, but –” he broke off and took a deep breath. “Anyway, I went to the pub after cause I needed a beer and the next thing I know I’m thinking that the two quid tequila shots sounds like a great idea – not sure what happened after that but I think maybe I was too drunk to walk home and Morgana’s was closer. It was a mess, anyway. I was a mess.”

“Yeah, you really were,” said Merlin. “You kind of scared me, actually.”

Arthur shifted awkwardly. “I don’t do that often. Get drunk all by myself.”

“I know,” said Merlin. “S’okay.”

“Well, good,” said Arthur. “I mean. I just don’t want you thinking I’m some sort of crazy drunkard.” He laughed nervously – and there was something about what he’d just said, the way it had been phrased, but Merlin couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He didn’t get it all through Arthur asking him how grad studenting was going, or through his own jokey response about Arthur distracting him from his thesis, or through waving Arthur good-bye, or through the mock-salute Arthur gave him on the way down the steps.

It didn’t hit him till the door was closing behind him with a _snick_. Arthur had put the emphasis every-so-slightly on the _you_ , like he cared what _Merlin_ thought, Merlin specfically. At the same moment he noticed how very soft the socks were, and a glance at the label told him they were real wool.

Then there’d been that strangely earnest glint in Arthur’s eye the whole time and the fact that, now that he thought about it, Morgana hadn’t been there for his salted-caramels-are-orgasmic spiel, but Arthur had, Merlin remembered because he’d said something snarky about how Merlin had clearly never had a _proper_ orgasm, so Merlin had snarked right back at him and with hindsight Arthur had probably been flirting, not just being a prat.

Suddenly all the _you’re my favourite_ and _you’ve got beautiful eyes_ seemed a whole let less like inane drunken rambling and a whole lot more like unfortunate drunken honesty, and Merlin was standing in his hallway in his pyjamas, clutching two pairs of real wool socks to his chest in a state of utter confusion.

“Well, shit,” he said aloud.


End file.
